


How to Tell a True War Story

by thanksforthecrumb



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Army, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, possibly ooc au in which everyone's beaten down and burnt out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-08 08:25:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4297638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksforthecrumb/pseuds/thanksforthecrumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The newly enlisted soldier who bursts into the bar is just another guy with a war story. But Murphy knows better than anyone—some of us tell war stories, some of us live them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Tell a True War Story

**Author's Note:**

> vaguely inspired by tim o’brien’s anthology _The Things They Carried_. title is taken from one of the stories. if you've read it, you might pick up on some allusions. no big deal if you haven't. (10/10 would recommend btw)
> 
> obligatory thanks to my part-time beta/full-time sister and best friend [whilemyfandomsgentlyweep](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whilemyfandomsgentlyweep/pseuds/whilemyfandomsgentlyweep)
> 
> also, at the start of the fic murphy is 24-25, bell's around 26.
> 
> warning: this fic deals with death and other potentially triggering subjects. proceed with caution.

_"A true war story, if truly told, makes the stomach believe.”_ — Tim O'Brien, _The Things They Carried_

* * *

 

The bell clangs as the door opens. Murphy doesn’t look up. A man slides onto a stool, thumps his arms down on the bar with a sigh. “Joined the army today.” He smiles. Dark.

Murphy wipes the counter.

“Lost my job, lost my girlfriend. Might as well lose my life, too, right? Complete the collection.”

Murphy cleans a glass.

“Sister was pissed. Hates when I do reckless shit without her.”

Murphy slides him a coaster.

“I’ll just take an IPA, thanks. Never liked hard liquor. Never liked the taste. Too bitter.”

You aren’t supposed to like it, Murphy wants to say. It’s not supposed to be sweet.

He bites his lip. Bravery is for soldiers, not bartenders.

“What’s your name?” the man asks between sips. If he’s noticed Murphy’s silence, he’s ignoring it.

“Murphy,” he answers evenly.

He laughs, cheeks pulling wide at his lips. “No kidding. That’s a dog name, you know? No kidding.”

Murphy shrugs. “Fits me, I guess.” He turns away, busies himself with setting out fresh glasses. It’s only out of boredom that he asks, “What’s yours?”

The man nods. “Bellamy,” he says.

Weird name, Murphy wants to say. He keeps his head down, wipes the condensation rings off the counter.

“You ever thought about the army?”

Murphy huffs, watching the warmth of his breath fan on the counter. “Never even thought about thinking about it.”

Bellamy laughs again, louder. A bark. “Figures. I didn’t either. That’s how they get you, huh? Wait until all the soul’s been knocked out of you so there’s nothing left for you to lose. ‘Guess I’ll just join the army. Why not?’” He pauses, his beer frozen in the air halfway between the counter and his mouth. “I wanted to be a curator when I was little. You know. Museums and shit.”

Murphy grunts, and Bellamy accepts it as a question. “Something about all the different pieces—all the different stories and retellings—hooked me on history.”

Murphy nods, because that’s all anyone wants. Someone to listen. They want their story to be good, to be listened to and remembered.

“Sorry, I’m probably boring you, right?” Bellamy runs a hand through his hair. The curls tug at his fingers. Murphy stares. Murphy swallows. He shakes his head.

“I’ve always liked stories, too,” he says.

Bellamy grins. “Yeah? What kind?”

“The ones that stay with you,” he says, because he doesn’t know another way to say it.

Bellamy thinks about that, sipping on his beer. “I like war stories,” he admits after a while.

 

“So, soldier. You got any war stories?”

“No,” Murphy says. “Not me.”

“That’s a lie,” he says. “Everyone’s got war stories.”

Murphy shrugs. He slides an old man another gin and tonic. He wipes his hand on the back of his pants.

Bellamy’s smile is curious, his eyes glinting a challenge. “You just don’t want to share.”

“Maybe.”

“That’s alright.”

“I know it is.”

Bellamy smirks around the lip of his bottle. He doesn’t say anything. 

Murphy likes him better for it.

 

Bellamy wears an odd smile parted around the edge of his drink. He sets it on the bar. “Don’t like talking?” he asks finally.

Murphy pauses. “Don’t have anything to say.”

“Everyone’s got something to say.”

Murphy scoffs. “But no one wants to hear it.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it.” He takes a swallow of beer. His Adam’s apple bobs once, bobs twice.

Murphy scoots away to pour someone a glass of something stiff.

“No, really,” Bellamy says, raising his voice. “Tell me about it.”

Murphy glances back at him. He takes a deep breath.

 

Bellamy’s burned through two beers before he looks— _really_ looks—at Murphy. “How’d you get into bartending?” he asks.

Murphy coughs a laugh. “I know alcohol,” he says. “I know the people who drink it.”

“Yeah? Sounds like there’s a story there.”

Murphy smiles, wolflike. “Maybe there is.” He plucks Bellamy’s empty beer bottle off the counter. “Why’re you so interested in stories?”

“Who _isn’t_ interested in them?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Bellamy sighs, loud and unnecessary. “I like them,” he says. “Stories.”

Murphy cocks an eyebrow. “Sounds like there’s a story there,” he mimics.

“A story in a story?” Bellamy laughs. “Nah, I don’t think so. I’m just fascinated by different perspectives, different versions. Differences, I guess. People.”

Murphy studies him for a second, taking in his unruly curls and frank brown eyes. “Ah,” he says to make Bellamy think he’s listening and not staring.

“It’s like—like old fairy tales. Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, the Little Mermaid. They’ve been around for centuries, and there are hundreds of versions of them. All a bit different, because they’re told by different people.” He grins. “I’ve always looked at history as a story. Just one big anthology of short stories, you know?”

Short stories, Murphy wants to say. Got that right. 

He shrugs. He does know, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Most people like telling stories,” Bellamy says. It’s a nudge, Murphy knows it. He doesn’t move.

“Some people prefer to listen.”

“Yeah, but you’re not one of them, are you?”

Murphy smirks. “I’ve always preferred reading.”

Bellamy shakes his head, still smiling. “God, they’d hate you in the army.”

 

He says, “I’m getting shipped off in two days.”

He says, “Finally put all that training to use.”

He says, “I’ll come back with even more war stories.”

He says, “Can I have another beer?”

He doesn’t say, “I’m scared.”

But Murphy knows.

He wants to offer a smile, a _You’ll be fine_ , an _It’ll be over before you know it_. Anything that can help.

He offers Bellamy alcohol instead.

 

“Thanks for the chat, soldier,” Bellamy says, pulling on his jacket. “If you don’t see me in six months, I’m dead. Or I’ve forgotten about you. It’s fifty-fifty.”

Murphy makes a noise like laughter and swings his towel over his shoulder. In a flush of confidence, he calls, “Thanks for your service.” He’s always wanted to know what being brave tastes like.

Bellamy salutes him, smirk crooked, as he walks out the door.

It tastes bitter and sharp—burns in his chest a bit—and he knows he’ll regret it later, but Murphy likes it.

 

The bar’s always been quiet, but when the sun goes down and Bellamy doesn’t burst through the door, Murphy feels the silence turn lonely.

 

Murphy spends his time the exact same way he’s spent it for the last eighteen years. He cleans up someone else’s mess, someone’s spill, wipes away someone else’s sorrows.

He cleans and pours and listens and mops.

He waits.

 

The doorbell is a constant sober ringing.

Murphy fights a war too.

 

Murphy wipes three different drunkards’ puke off the floor. 

Murphy pours more alcohol.

He’s never liked war stories.

 

Murphy catches a bad cold in November and has to take a few days off, a familiar little horror story running through his head as he sips tepid soup.

It’s just another battle, he tells himself, and tries to believe he’s winning.

 

Murphy gets a new shirt. (Black.)

The bar opens and closes 128 times.

The bell has to be replaced.

 

One of the bar’s customers likes him. Emori.

She tells him war stories, too—it’s nothing new. 

He listens, but only barely.

She knows.

 

Murphy gets punched by some drunk idiot. He doesn’t punch back. He doesn’t even want to. 

Soldiers might not pick their battles, but bartenders do.

And anyway, it doesn’t hurt too much, though the bruise flowering on his cheek takes almost a month to fade back into pale skin.

Wounds are just a part of war stories.

 

Murphy thinks about a lot of things. He thinks about the frost on the glass he pours beer into. Thinks about the heavy smell of alcohol, the exhausted hands slapping creased bills on the counter. He thinks about the enveloping darkness in the bar, the same drunk faces that stumble in every day, how he’s never poured anything more inspired than a vodka soda.

He doesn’t think it’s odd that he thinks so much about Bellamy.

 

Murphy doesn’t like war stories, and he doesn’t like drunks, but he likes Bellamy Blake. It’s a delayed understanding that only comes as he’s pouring tequila for a tired woman. He’s tired too, he thinks, watching as she downs the shot and asks for another without giving him so much as a thanks.

 

There’s no big welcome back for Bellamy. Murphy doesn’t even know when to expect him, just that he’s been ready ever since Bellamy got shipped off to war. But one day the bell rings, and Murphy looks up.

He looks different. Older, more tired. His curls are cropped and his boots are muddy.

Murphy sets a sweating bottle of IPA onto the counter as soon as Bellamy slouches inside. He gives the bartender a tired look and nudges the beer away. “Nah. I don’t want beer,” he says. “Give me something better.”

“Better.”

Bellamy scrubs a hand over his face. “Stronger.”

That’s not better, Murphy wants to say.

Instead, he fixes Bellamy with a flat stare and plunks a shot glass in front of him.

Bellamy doesn’t thank him.

~

Bellamy’s head sways as he knocks back a shot. Murphy sweeps away his tower of glasses. He scowls. “You’ve had enough,” he says, plucking the newly emptied shot glass from Bellamy’s shaking hands. His scowl deepens.

Bellamy frowns, too. “I’ve only had—”

“You’ve had enough.”

“But—”

“You want to drink your brains out? Fine. Just do it the fuck away from me.”

Bellamy laughs, and Murphy’s blood boils. He knows it’s the alcohol, but that only makes it worse. “This is a bar, Murph. This is your job. People come here specifically to drink their brains out.”

People, Murphy wants to say. Not you.

Bellamy leans over the counter, reaching out a hand. He latches onto Murphy’s wrist, his skin hot. “Just another round.” His eyes are bloodshot and wide, a sloppy curve tweaking his smile. “ _Please_ ,” he says, and when it echoes and rings in Murphy’s head, he wonders if he’s drunk, too.

He stares at Bellamy, face flushed, bits of dark hair sticking to his forehead. His freckles are bigger than Murphy’d thought, his eyelashes longer. They could kiss, he thinks, they’re so close, they could kiss. Bellamy’s lips are soft, he thinks, softer than his hands. He only needs to lean in, lean in a few more inches…

“Get out,” Murphy says. Bellamy’s lips are slick with alcohol.

He totters on his stool. “What? Why?”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m _fine_.”

Murphy narrows his eyes. “Get out.”

“Gimme a minute, I’m ju—”

“I don’t fucking care,” says Murphy. “Get out.”

“It’s a bar—I’m not doing anything ill _egal_ , I’m just drinking—”

“I’m not gonna say it again, Bellamy.”

He stumbles off his stool. “A’right, a’right, I’m leaving, I’m going.”

Murphy watches him walk (unsteadily) out the door. He pours a woman her fifth shot of vodka, slides a hulking man another Scotch.

He hates drunks.

 

The next day, the bell rings more than Murphy can count, but never for Bellamy.

Murphy misses him, unmistakably proud.

 

It’s not long before Bellamy pokes his curly head through the door, and Murphy’d be lying if he said relief didn’t come with him.

Murphy sends him a wry smirk and straightens. “Miss me?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes and grins. “Missed the cheap booze, more like.”

Murphy shakes his head and slides him a coaster.

Warm brown eyes lock with hesitant green. “Thanks,” Bellamy says.

Murphy smiles.

“Let me buy you a beer,” Bellamy says, brushing his jeans off as he lowers himself onto the stool. “Whatever you want.”

Murphy accepts the apology. “I don’t drink. And we’re allowed one a night, anyway.”

“The hell is wrong with you? You get free beer and you don’t even drink it?” He growls out a laugh, and Murphy allows a tiny huff.

“It’s a long story.”

Bellamy grins, settling deeper into the seat. “So tell me it. Long stories are my favorite kind.”

Murphy turns away, grabbing a fresh glass and filling it halfway with Bourbon. “Maybe another time.”

“What? Still don’t trust me?”

“It’s not that,” Murphy says. “I’m just not a fan of sob stories. Never have been.”

Bellamy folds his arms on the counter, and Murphy’s eyes flicker to the barrier. “Yeah,” he says, “I know what you mean.”

And the thing is, he does.

 

They never talk about the shots, Bellamy’s hot skin and slurred speech, and Murphy’s fine with that. Bellamy promises—if only by the look in his eyes—not to get drunk again. But one night, the laughter dies in Bellamy’s throat, and he sets his bottle down with a thump.

“You know, I don’t come for the beer,” he says. “I don’t come for the alcohol.”

Murphy has to laugh. “Sorry if I have a hard time believing that.”

Bellamy ignores him. He leans further across the counter, and Murphy feels trapped, feels like he has to hide, has to break the pull of the man’s eyes. They’re a fucking whirlpool and he doesn’t even know how to swim. “I come for the company.”

This time, Murphy thinks, this time they could kiss. If he can just lean forward a bit, if he can just be brave enough.

Someone calls for another round of shots. Murphy turns away, feeling the tether of encouraging brown eyes snap.

He’s never been grateful to a drunk before.

 

“I had a friend in the army,” Murphy offers, for once brave enough to break the silence.

“Oh, yeah?” He swirls his beer, watching it hit the sides of the bottle. “How’d he like it?”

Murphy laughs. “I guess he didn’t, in the end.”

Bellamy laughs too. “Yeah.” He tips back the bottle. “Where’s he now?”

“Dead,” Murphy says. He wrings out his bar towel.

Bellamy nods, something close to satisfaction. A rough kind of understanding. “Army’ll do that to you.”

Murphy sets another beer in front of him. Bellamy looks at it, looks back at him. “I didn’t—”

“I know.”

He shrugs. Pops it open. “Wanna hear a war story?”

No, Murphy wants to say.

“Sure,” he says.

Murphy’s never liked war stories.

They start with once-good memories and end with creased photographs and letters home, clenched jaws and he was a good man, really was, didn’t deserve to die. They start with trips to the beach and end with bottles of liquor shattered on the floor, smell of alcohol heavy in the kitchen, loud nights and crashed cars, unpaid bills and stupid lies.

“His name was Atom,” Bellamy begins, and this isn’t just a war story, it’s a long story, it’s a love story.

The worst kind, Murphy wants to say.

 

“You ever get bored, Murphy?”

Murphy raises an eyebrow. He pauses, towel on the counter. “I think you’ve had too much beer. You’re getting philosophical.”

He rolls his eyes. “Seriously.”

Murphy shrugs.

“You ever get bored of this tiny town? Dingy little dive bar? Pouring the same old drinks for the same old people?”

“Be fair. You’ve still got a good four years in you. Maybe five if you stop drinking so much beer.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.” He takes a swig of his drink, the motion sharp and robotic.

“Guess not.”

“You don’t get bored?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“You ever want to go? Just get up and leave it all.”

He shrugs again. “I don’t have anywhere _to_ go.”

“But that’s the _point_ ,” Bellamy sighs. “You go out on your own and you leave everything behind and you find home again.”

“What if I’m already home?” It’s a joke, but no one laughs.

Bellamy raises an eyebrow. “I think that would be a lie.”

“I never said I thought I was home.”

“Lies don’t have to be spoken.”

Murphy stares. “So now we know you can handle three beers before you go full-on fucking therapist.” He reaches instinctually for the towel hanging on his belt, but it’s not there. He laughs, suddenly nervous. 

Bellamy relaxes. “Tell me a story,” he says, and they both know it’s a peace offering.

Murphy hesitates. “Okay,” he says, and once he starts talking, the words flow smooth like whiskey.

He doesn’t leave anything out. The tiny apartment that was at first cozy and then stifling. The flu and the wrong antibiotics and the payments that weren’t enough; the screaming that started in the night and didn’t stop in the day; threadbare smiles that came too often and then too little; the mutilated Ford found off the road and the skid marks that looked too much like a seven-year-old’s curvy crayon lines; the guidance counselor called down to the second grade classroom; the mother who came to the rescue forty minutes too late, came stinking of alcohol and sweat, made the car rock and lurch, yelled when her son threw up as they got home; the only communication between them thrown dishes and tears and false apologies and everything repeated over and over.

He pours as he talks, used to interruption.

He tells Bellamy about late nights and missed homework assignments; the little apartment that became a liquor cabinet; the way that death looked exactly like life, covered in puke and alcohol and out cold on the stained carpet; the neighbors that cared enough to call social services but didn’t take him in.

Bellamy doesn’t say anything. Murphy doesn’t want him to.

He tells Bellamy about handcuffs and jail cells and drowning in the same drug that killed his mother; burning cigarettes and skipping school and pretending not to care about not being cared for; a kid with the same initials and the same bloody knuckles. He tells Bellamy about fake IDs and stupid, drunken kisses; another tiny apartment that wasn’t really safe but at least felt like it. He tells Bellamy about how it took two pumped stomachs to convince him to stop, tells about stolen bottles of liquor wrapped in newspapers and left in the neighbor’s trash.

“Quitting’ll kill me before the alcohol does,” Mbege had said. They never let the other cheat, but Murphy remembers the nights when he crawled out to the curb and nursed stale whiskey until three in the morning.

There’s a story to every story, Murphy thinks, wondering if he’s boring Bellamy.

He tells Bellamy about the army and the periods without Mbege and the way loneliness creeps up after a while; buzzcuts and standing up straight and the way Mbege talked about the army like he loved it more than Murphy. And then there’s the letter, that stiff fucking letter delayed several months because no one knew who Mbege was, much less that his only family was a pale boy who shared so much more than just his home and his first name.

Murphy squeezes the bar towel, using his other hand to scrub at his face. He hates war stories.

When he finishes, there’s a heavy pause, and Murphy gets it. His story doesn’t have an end; he’s never had any of that “building action”, the climax his fourth grade teacher said all good stories must have. And maybe that’s it. Maybe he doesn’t have a good story.

“Thanks,” Bellamy finally says. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Nah,” Murphy says, “thanks for listening.”

 

Bellamy burns through his first beer of the night without saying anything. Murphy leaves him alone and gives him extra napkins. Bellamy’s lips are dry, a washed-out pink in the dim light, and the smile lines stenciling his mouth look tired.  

“Hey, Murph. Can I ask you something?” Bellamy’s voice is distracted, his eyes busy tracing the wooden counter.

“People only ever say that when they’re about to ask something bad,” Murphy says. “Or personal.”

“That’s a yes, right?”

“Yeah. You want another beer?”

Bellamy frowns. “No.” He taps his empty bottle twice, and Murphy has to strain to hear the soft _pling_. “Do you hate your job?”

The vodka Murphy’s pouring slows to a trickle. “Do you hate yours?”

“I asked first.”

“You’re a fucking three-year-old, you know?” Murphy sighs, setting the bottle down. “I can’t fucking describe how much I hate this job, but I’m glad I’m the one doing it.”

Bellamy nods, an unhappy smile working its way onto his lips. “Bartending’s like the army, then, huh.”

“Yeah,” Murphy says. “You want another beer?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy says.

 

“My unit’s been called back,” Bellamy says before Murphy can get out a beer.

“What?”

“They need us in Iraq.” The tired words come from a tired man, muffled as Bellamy rubs his mouth. Murphy feels their weight settle in the pit of his stomach. He pops the bottle open for Bellamy. 

I need you _here_ , he wants to say.

“When are you leaving?” he says.

“They want us at the base in three days,” Bellamy answers around a swallow of beer. “But I’m gonna be out of here in two.”

“Oh,” Murphy says. He ducks behind the bar, pretending to be getting a glass.

I'm going to miss you, he wants to say.

“Do you need a ride?” he says.

Bellamy shakes his head. “Nah, my sister's taking me. Wants to send me off this time.”

“Right, yeah,” Murphy says. “Good. That's good.”

Fucking idiot, he thinks, that's not what you wanted to say.

 

Murphy is used to waiting. He’s had a lot of practice.

When his father was alive, it was “Wait for the soup to cool, John, you’ll burn your tongue,” and “Wait till your birthday; maybe we’ll have the money then.” When his father was dead, it was waiting for the right time to talk to his mother about groceries and bills and things kids don’t usually think about. It was waiting for her to stop passing out on the living room floor, to stop drinking herself away, waiting for her to be a real fucking mother instead of a drunkard. And when she was dead, it was waiting for everything to be over. That’s when Mbege came along, and Murphy fell just enough in love with him that waiting was long and lonely. When he never came back, Murphy wasn’t all that surprised. At some point, you start hoping for the worst just to be proved wrong.

And so Murphy finds himself in a familiar position. Waiting for a soldier to come home.

 

The bar stops ordering so many cases of Shipyard IPA. Turns out it’s not much of a seller. Murphy offers to take the unwanted beers home. Someone might want them, he thinks.

 

Murphy pours. Murphy mops floors. Murphy cleans glasses and opens new bottles. It’s the same, he thinks. Everything is completely the same, and yet something’s different. It doesn’t take him long to pinpoint it.

The bar has to let someone go. “Sacrifices,” the owner—Jaha—says, “we’ve got to make sacrifices.”

Murphy can’t help but feel a bit of relief when Jaha asks him to fire Craig. He tells the other bartender first thing in the morning, and even though he feels bad, he doesn’t say he’s sorry. Useless words sound empty even when they’re not.

 

Murphy’s shifts seem to get longer and longer.

He thinks about asking for a raise.

 

A lot can happen in six months and still mean nothing, Murphy thinks as he stacks glasses.

Boring war stories are the worst.

 

Murphy hates waiting. It’s never been quite like this. He pours distractedly, like he’s drunk. Bellamy Blake is some sort of fucked up substitute for alcohol, he thinks.

 

“I’ve flown all the way from the Middle East for cheap IPA,” Bellamy announces, throwing the door open with a force that threatens to kill the bell. 

Murphy doesn’t look up, just slides him a coaster and a beer. Bellamy pulls up a stool. 

He smiles as he opens the bottle. “Man, have I got some war stories for you,” he says.

Murphy waits.

Murphy listens.

 

Bellamy eats more bar nuts than Murphy’s ever seen him eat in the twoyears they’ve known each other. He takes handful after handful, spilling one or two on the counter and popping them into his mouth.

Murphy just watches. “Eat any more and you’re going to have to buy me some new nuts,” he says.

The pouches of Bellamy’s cheeks deflate as he swallows. “What, you running low?”

“Um, yeah. At the rate you’re shoving them in your fucking fa—” He breaks off as Bellamy’s guffaw cuts through his words, and a flash of anger jolts though him at being goaded into saying something so fucking _ridiculous_.

Anger makes him brave, makes him stupid. He’s always been like that. And so he’s angry when he reaches out and tugs at the nape of those stupid curls, pissed when he takes in those infuriating eyes, and absolutely fucking _mental_ when he tastes peanut on Bellamy’s breath.

Bellamy huffs a laugh into his mouth, and Murphy pulls harder on his hair, pleased with the grunt he gets in response. Bellamy’s lips are plump and soft underneath a desert of salt. Murphy licks it all off, and the electricity in his stomach isn’t anger anymore, but it’s something just as rough.

They break apart, panting, and Murphy says, “Did I ever tell you I’m allergic to peanuts?”

Bellamy’s eyes go wide, grin wiped off his face. “Jesus Christ, are you—”

“Kidding,” Murphy says, “I’m kidding.”

“Oh, _fuck_ y—”

He’s far from angry this time, so Murphy’s not sure what gives him enough bravery to crush Bellamy’s lips against his. It hits him later, when Bellamy takes his hand and tugs him out of the bar, across town, up three flights of stairs, into a bed too small to be permanent.

Somewhere, someone calls out for a whiskey.

 

“I guess I don’t understand _why_ you have to go,” Murphy says, frowning.

Bellamy shakes his head. “That’s just—that’s how this stuff is, you know?”

Just when things are getting better, Murphy wants to say. Getting good.

“How long are you going to be gone?” Murphy says.

Bellamy shrugs. “Not very long, I think.” He sets his beer on the counter, his hand reaching across like it’s searching for Murphy’s. He stops short, tapping on the wood instead. “And I’m retiring right after.”

Murphy eyes Bellamy’s hand. He swallows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Murphy imagines tracing the crease lines of Bellamy's palm, calloused skin catching at his fingertips. “You want another beer?”

“Nah,” Bellamy says, grinning a little too wide. He takes Murphy's hand. “I don’t want anything else.”

Murphy rolls his eyes. He smiles.

 

Bellamy’s gone the next day, and some part of Murphy is still innocent enough to feel betrayed.

He brushes it off and pours someone else liquid courage.

 

There’s a lot Murphy wants to say. It boils in his mouth the whole day, threatening to leap out at the drunks who’re tired of stories. When he gets home, he grabs a pen and paper, and he writes it all down.

There’s a lot Murphy wishes he’d said before.

 

The letters start out with “Dear Bellamy” and “To Bellamy” and end with “Sincerely” and “See you soon.” But Murphy realizes, in the middle of an anecdote about fireworks, that he’s not expecting a response. The letters become short stories—war stories—and most of the time they start with “This one’s for you” and “Because you asked.” Sometimes they end with “I miss you.”

 

Murphy runs out of paper at four, the rising sun pink and soft through his window. He scrambles around his apartment for more, settles for leftover napkins from the bar. He bites the end of his pen. He hesitates for a minute. He writes.

He is braver on paper.

 

Behind the bar, Murphy pours and wipes and writes and thinks. He has dozens of letters now, enough short stories to fill an anthology. He offers a half-smile and a shot of tequila to the man who slaps a handful of change on the counter.

 

Murphy gets to his apartment deep into the night, hands sticky with spilled beer. His first urge is to grab a pen and write, but there’s nothing left to say. He takes a shower, paying special attention to his hands.

He tucks all the letters into a manila envelope, doesn’t bother to seal it. He won’t send it. He doesn’t know where to send it. And even if he did know, he knows he wouldn’t. 

War stories are better delivered in person.

 

Murphy's never made much from tips, but tonight he’s so distracted that the only tip he gets is a five-dollar bill he finds on the bathroom floor. He smiles, apologizes for the tenth time to no one in particular, and curses out phantom freckles like there’s no tomorrow.

Waiting never used to make him giddy.

 

The girl’s knocked back two shots before Murphy notices her. He studies her long hair, her sharp nose and high cheekbones. He moves closer, pretending to be wiping down the counter.

“You legal?” he asks once he’s in front of her. She looks something close to young. Not quite innocent—fresh.

She glares. “Yeah, fuck off.”

He shrugs and turns away.

“Hey,” she says, and it’s not just the alcohol softening her voice. “You wouldn’t—Does a guy named Murphy work here?”

He stops. “Yeah.”

“Where is he?”

“You’re talking to him.”

“Oh,” she says. She eyes her empty shot glass. He sighs. They watch the vodka dance as it streams out of the bottle, listen to it sing as it curls into the glass. She clicks her teeth together. “You got a suit?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Never needed one.”

“Never been to a wedding?” 

He smirks. “Nah.”

“Never been to a funeral?” Sour. Sour like the alcohol she drinks. Just as sharp, just as punishing.

“I’ve made a habit of avoiding them.”

“What—you don’t like funerals?”

He looks at her.

“Kidding,” she says, and holds the word out like a shield.

He stares a second longer before turning to the old man sitting a stool down from her. He’s shaking, and he reeks of alcohol, but he nudges an empty glass to Murphy and makes something of a whine in the back of his throat.

Murphy uncorks a new bottle of whiskey. The man sighs, nodding appreciatively. Or maybe that’s just the booze.

“He talked about you a lot,” the girl says abruptly, punctuating the statement with a bang of her shot glass against the counter.

He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t ask who she’s talking about. It’s what she wants.

“Told me about a great little dive bar on Seventh. Told me about an even greater little bartender.” She sloshes back a shot. “He really liked you, you know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Murphy says.

“That’s a lie,” she says.

He blinks.

“He told you his war stories.”

He sucks in a breath. “Everyone tells me their war stories.”

“Yeah?”

Murphy wipes the counter.

“He’s dead, Murphy.”

He swallows, doesn’t look up. “Isn’t that how every war story ends?” It’s not a question.

“He’s _dead_.”

“I heard the first time.”

He hears the scowl, doesn’t need to look. “Yeah, but I don’t think you listened.”

Something snaps. It’s almost like he can feel it—a little fracture, a tear. Something old and delicately healed. He slams the whiskey bottle onto the counter, startling the old drunkard and splashing droplets of alcohol onto the wood. “That’s all I ever fucking _did_ ,” he says. It’s not loud enough to be a yell, but he’s never poured this much bravery into words. 160 proof, he thinks. Lethal.

“All I ever fucking did was listen.” He jabs a finger at a woman slouched by the window. “See her? She’s been coming here every day of the fucking week for three years. Sat down right in front of me and cried her fucking eyes out because her dad died and her boyfriend dumped her and her kid gets bullied. I listened to every single fucking word.” He draws in a rattling breath, pointing to the old man nursing the whiskey. “That guy? His son only calls him on Christmas. Wife left when he got diagnosed with leukemia; doctors gave him three years to live. He’s spent a solid two drinking his fucking lights out.”

She hesitates. “I—”

“No, this time _you’re_ listening. I get to bitch. Just this once, I get to fucking pour my heart out and you get to listen and you have to fucking take it.” He wonders if hearts have a maximum speed, because God, if they do, he’s fucked.

“I’m payed to listen. I’m payed to shut up and shove poison down people’s throats. And I’m payed to watch it tear everything apart, I’m payed to be fucking silent. But Jesus _Christ_ , I’m done.”

He laughs, and it’s not a real laugh. He just needs to take up space. “They said my mom died of a broken heart, you know? But I knew. I knew. No one else saw her like I did, not even my dad. She didn’t die of a broken fucking heart. She blew her liver out. And I had to clean up her mess afterwards. Because that’s what a good bartender does. That’s what got me the job.” 

He breathes shakily, every part of him feeling fragile. He hates it, his eyes prickling, his body trembling like it’s going to break. He balls his hands into fists. “And I’m… I’m so fucking _tired_.”

She blinks.

She doesn’t say, “I know.”

She doesn’t say, “I’m tired, too.”

The look she gives him says it all.

She slides a few bills over the counter, nudges the empty shot glass away, and gives him an invitation card. “Funeral’s tomorrow,” she says, standing as she tugs on her coat.

He stares at the card, at nothing.

“No need to RSVP,” she says, her laugh thin. She locks eyes with him, and the familiar raking honesty in her blue gaze puts Murphy into a trance. “Okay?” she asks, her brow wrinkled, her lips twisted into a grimace. Just like him.

Murphy shrugs, numb, tucking the card into his back pocket. “Okay,” he says, more of a sigh than a word. “Okay.”

 

Murphy buttons his shirt to the throat, smooths the collar. He struggles with his tie, looping it seven different ways and somehow always ending up back where he started.

Murphy hates funerals.

He scrubs at his Converse, more dingy gray than black and white. He tries the tie again, sighing, and manages to coax out a crooked knot. He wonders if it’s appropriate enough, if it’s what Bell would’ve wanted. He stands for a minute, studying his reflection.

He rips off his tie, undoes a few of the shirt’s buttons, and exchanges his bouquet of blood-red roses for the manila envelope sitting on the shelf.

 

Murphy hates funerals.

It’s like they try to push a story’s ending before it really comes. And worse, they make stories out to be fairy tales. But Christ, if Murphy knows anything it’s that the words “happily ever after” don’t belong tacked on to the end of a war story.

He stands at the back of the congregation, treading water in a sea of black. He chews on his lip when a stocky blond girl steps up to the podium, tucks his hands in his pockets when she starts to speak.

“Bellamy was… He was my best friend,” she says, giving a shaky laugh. “We met in high school, stuck together through college, and now we’re here. He was my best friend.”

I was his bartender, Murphy thinks. He told me his war stories.

“He was brave, really brave,” she says. “Strong, too. Smart. It wasn’t a surprise when he joined the army.”

It wasn’t a surprise when he died either, Murphy thinks.

“He was such a good person. He was funny and kind and generous. He lived as much as he loved. He had a bunch of friends, and he’d always drag us around. It wasn’t dragging, though, not really, because everyone who followed him followed for a reason.” She pauses. She smiles, and sniffles as she looks down at her hands. Tragic, graceful, heroic. “He called us nuisances, but we were a family. He loved us.”

He loved beer, Murphy thinks. India pale ale.

She drones on about how Bellamy always told the best stories, how it really made you _feel_ something. Murphy wonders if he ever told her any war stories. He blocks out the rest of her speech. He wants to keep Bellamy his.

 

Bellamy’s little sister—Octavia, Murphy remembers, Bellamy’d told him plenty stories about her—looks like she’s drowning in the big black coat she wears. She speaks quietly to a group of friends, and Murphy taps her on the shoulder before he can think about it. 

She turns. “Oh,” she says. “Murphy, right?”

He nods.

“Glad you could come. Bellamy talked about you all the time. Wouldn’t shut up. He really liked you.”

I know, Murphy wants to say.

“I didn’t bring flowers,” he says.

She blinks. “That’s okay.” 

He rubs his nose. “But I did—I did bring this.” He hands her the envelope filled with stories, the only explanation the large red BELLAMY he’d scrawled on top. “These are for Bellamy. Were for him. Would've been.”

She takes the packet, blue eyes wide.

She doesn’t thank him.

All she says is, “Oh.”

He nods. He mumbles a condolence, makes his way back to the front, and tries to stifle the disappointment he feels at seeing the shut casket. There’s no better way to end a war story than with cold, waxy skin; limp, dark hair.

The casket’s black and shiny, like a mirror. He can see the bags underneath his eyes, the peeling of his chapped lips. He can see pale skin and greasy hair, furrowed eyebrows and glassy eyes. He stumbles back.

You’re not supposed to see yourself in a dead person’s box.

He taps on the casket, needs the noise. Everything is quiet.

I think I loved you, Murphy wants to say. 

Bravery leaves a burning in his chest.

“You had a good war story,” he says. “But I didn’t like the ending.”

Isn’t that how it always goes.

Murphy taps the casket again. He pulls his coat tighter. He thinks about staying, going to Bellamy’s house and meeting all the characters from the story. Putting faces to names, seeing Bellamy’s life instead of hearing it.

But bravery leaves a sour taste in his mouth, a ringing in his head. Murphy knows it’s not worth it.

Lightweight, he thinks.

 

The bar Murphy finds himself in doesn’t have a bell on the door. It’s different—all bright lights and metal countertops, filled with vibrant people and laughter, so much laughter. He almost wants to cover his ears, close his eyes, block all the life out. This must be where you go before you break. When drinking is for fun.

He slouches into a stool. A bartender dressed in black slides him a coaster without meeting his eye. Murphy traces the flimsy material with a finger. He smiles. Dark.

“Man,” he says, “have I got a war story for you."

**Author's Note:**

> _“And in the end, of course, a true war story is never about war. It’s about sunlight. It’s about the special way that dawn spreads out on a river when you know you must cross that river and do things you are afraid to do. It’s about love and memory. It’s about sorrow._
> 
> _“It’s about sisters who never write back and people who never listen.” ___— Tim O’Brien, _The Things They Carried ___
> 
> let me know what you think, maybe? also, i apologize for any errors in detail, especially concerning the military and bars/alcohol in general. i'm a pathetic 15 year old with the worldly experience of a dead baby worm. google and yahoo answers can only get you so far.


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